


Ce Cœur de Flamme

by raspberryhunter



Series: Coeur de Flamme [1]
Category: Don Carlos | Don Carlo - Verdi/du Locle/Méry
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-12 19:41:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15347244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raspberryhunter/pseuds/raspberryhunter
Summary: Philip sees many things. Philip sees the Marquis of Posa, and wants him.





	Ce Cœur de Flamme

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iberiandoctor (jehane)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/gifts).



> I, uh, had Feelings about your headcanon about how Philip is drawn to Rodrigo precisely because of how his son feels about Posa...
> 
> Many thanks to my betas, sprocket and zdenka!

King Philip strides through San Yuste with his Queen. Carlos comes up to them, pale, and bows deeply to them. Perhaps the Infante thinks Philip does not see how Carlos' gaze strays to Elisabeth. Perhaps Elisabeth thinks that Philip does not see how she averts her eyes from the Infante, as if there is something she is hiding.

But Philip sees. Oh, King Philip sees many things.

Philip sees also the courtier in the shadows who stretches out a hand out to pull Carlos back. He knows it is one of the Grandees -- who? Ah, the Marquis of Posa, that is who it is, the one who was boyhood friends with Carlos.

He kneels to pray with Elisabeth, but watches the two of them covertly. He sees Carlos put an arm around Posa and gaze into his eyes in a way that says to Philip that they are more than friends. Posa touches Carlos' face so delicately and tenderly that something aches in Philip's own heart.

As he closes his eyes again to pray, he thinks of that moment, Posa and Carlos together; thoughts of the two of them embracing stay in his head for the rest of the day, even after he goes back to the court, even as his ministers speak to him, their voices buzzing unpleasantly with requests for favors and rewards.

That night, after a number of sleepless hours, he rises from his no-longer-comfortable bed and opens the portfolio he carries always with him: the book of the deeds of the realm. He reads about the Marquis of Posa, of how he was one of the forty knights who held St. Elmo's Castle, of how he crushed the dread conspiracy in Catalonia. Why, he thinks, should Carlos have such a paramour, such a knight? Such a man should be the confidant of kings--

Philip tells the Marquis to stay behind the next time he sees him at court. At first he tells himself it is merely out of curiosity, to know who this man is whom his son loves. But the Marquis does not claim any reward or favor, uniquely in Philip's experience. Instead he exhorts the King to give the world liberty. Philip looks at the Marquis' earnest handsome face as he stands fearlessly before his King, a full head taller than Philip himself; Philip hears Posa's passionate words without a trace of timidity or discomfiture at speaking to his monarch so boldly; and Philip begins to feel the stirrings of emotion.

He thinks of his son embracing this man. (He thinks of Posa touching Carlos' face. He thinks of Carlos' eyes on Posa.)

And he thinks of Posa turning from Carlos, turning as he stands here now, and embracing him instead. 

His bones seem to turn to liquid as he thinks of it, all his emotions transmuting into desire. He stares at Posa, who continues to argue his case, unaware of what his monarch is thinking. Oh, he wants this passionate lovely young man, this elegant courtier with the hard body of a soldier, dark snapping eyes burning with the fire of his convictions; he wants that ardor under him, in his bed, he wants to thrust himself into its flame.

He puts a hand slowly and deliberately on Posa's shoulder. Posa starts in surprise, then stands very still. Philip's thumb traces slow circles on Posa's neck. Posa's eyes display a hint of fear for the first time; they dart to Philip's and then away. 

"I want to have you beside me," says Philip softly, his arousal filling him with need.

"Sire, no," says Posa huskily. He has been a courtier all his life; he knows what Philip means. "I would remain as I am!"

"You are too proud!" snaps Philip. Posa, to his credit, does not flinch as Philip runs a finger down his cheek. Ah, I will leach that pride out of you, Posa, naked and on your knees. You would remain as you are, you would remain Carlos', but if he will have what is mine, I will have what is his. 

But that makes him think again of his suspicions, his suspicions of his own son! He says as much to Posa. Ah, Posa, he thinks, as he tells him of his misgivings, Carlos has no doubt spoken of me to you, has told you that I am cold, distant, hardly human. But look, see, I have a heart, here it is, I can be as warm as any other man: I can be as passionate as my son.

Posa looks away as his monarch speaks, and Philip cannot tell what he is thinking. Philip says, low, "I put my heart in your loyal hands." (Posa's hands: those long fingers, that curled up so sweetly as they caressed Carlos' hair--)

Posa breathes out. He is still not looking at Philip, but rather to something far beyond him; he nods, very slightly, and his lips turn up in the barest hint of a smile.

And then Posa kneels suddenly and takes Philip's hand. There is no longer any fear in his face, and no trepidation, but a sort of determination that surprises Philip, and excites him too. At the barest touch of Posa's lips to Philip's fingers, Philip almost cries out with desire, his arousal painful in its intensity. 

Posa's fleeting glance makes it clear that he knows exactly what he is doing to Philip. "Sire," Posa whispers.

Philip nods, taking his hand away and gesturing to Posa to rise. "Tonight," he says, his voice rough with hunger. "Come to my chambers tonight." He walks away, not looking back. After a moment, he hears footsteps behind him, and he smiles.

***

That night, afterwards, Philip sleeps, the first gentle and deep sleep he has had in months. He wakes early in the morning, thinking perhaps it was all a strange dream, but no, Posa is still next to him, curled up beside him, unclothed and beautiful, his face in repose looking serene and untroubled. 

Philip watches him sleep.

Posa was all he had imagined he would be: compliant and obedient to Philip's slightest wishes, with a firm, strong soldier's body -- he thinks of how it felt to thrust into that body, to feel Posa shudder and gasp beneath him; he thinks of Posa's boldness in showing Philip how he wanted to be pleasured; he thinks of how Posa abandoned himself to that pleasure. He thinks of Posa, on his knees, taking him in his mouth as Philip tangled his fingers in his hair; even in that position, even naked and beneath Philip, he retained his dignity and strength, and there was nothing of vulnerability in him.

It is Philip himself who knows that something in him has opened, has exposed something fragile for which he has no words. He trembles with an emotion that is like and unlike what he feels for Elisabeth; similar in its intensity, dissimilar in that it does not fill him with despair.

My son is lost to me; I do not have my wife's love; but I have Posa. I have him. He is in my bed, now; and every night, if I so wish.

A helpless tenderness rises in him as he gazes at Posa's still form. Philip lays a hand on Posa's cheek, and the other stirs slightly, and smiles a little, muttering something Philip cannot make out, but does not wake.

A small uneasy part of Philip's mind asks, What would Posa do, in some imagined future, if he were made to choose between Carlos and Philip? Whom would he choose?

(Posa never looked into his eyes, or touched his face the way Philip saw him touch Carlos'. But that will come in time, it must, when he understands that he belongs to Philip.)

He is mine, Philip thinks. He is _mine_.


End file.
